


A Falling Sky, Burning Silk

by Athanasa



Series: Turncoat [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Blood and Injury, Burns, Carteneau, Garlean, Gen, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-05-24 12:02:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14954325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Athanasa/pseuds/Athanasa
Summary: How to survive Carteneau mostly intact.(Or: How to get yourself stuck in a La Noscean infirmary for three months before deserting with the remains if your squad based on bad assumptions.)





	1. The Cast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, this is here so I stop forgetting their damn real names when I reference them later.

** 7th Legion, 5th Centuria, 8th Squad **

**Trachius 'Snow' pyr Dreher**  
_Tray-shus Dray-er_  
Male, Hyur  
Squad Leader (Decurio)  


**Juseaux 'Juice' jen Dunipame**  
_Juss-oh Du-ni-pam_  
Male, Elezen  
Medicus  


**Drust 'Thumb' jen Aedan**  
_Droost Ay-den_  
Male, Hyur  
Sapper (Cunicularius)  


**Aspanon 'Tongues' oen Tremerus**  
_Asp-anon Treh-mehr-us_  
Male, Elezen-Garlean Halfbreed  
Interpres (Interpreter)  


**Honoka 'Silk' oen Moriko**  
Female, Doman Hyur  
Heavy  


**5 un-named members not appearing in this story, and dead by the second chapter anyway.**


	2. The Cast

You are deeply concerned.

**“Tongues?”**

It’s the calm before the storm, before the battle. Clouds pile heavy overhead as battle lines are drawn, the time somewhere around late morning - but the dense cloud cover gives an odd quality to the light, it could be any time. Orders are to prevent the Eorzean Alliance crossing the Carteneau Flats, and reaching whatever legatus Nael van Darnus was doing with that Allagan monstrosity. Meat shielding.

It’s not an ideal battle ground, especially not for your unit. A unit that specialises in small operations, pathfinding, skirmishes. Not pitched battles. Of course, you are all trained in pitch battles - as any Garlean soldier worth their uniform should be - but it isn’t something you’ve ever really had to use. For you personally, you have only ever been in one battle involving an entire Garlean cohort on the field, most engagements being little more two centuria at most. Everything else was provincial rebellions.

And here you are, on a _plain_ , with little to no cover. Precious little concealment or dead ground to shelter in, and not even a paltry attempt at earthworks and fortifications. It rips away your reliance on careful movement and tactics to nothing, leaving you vulnerable. All that matters now is your squad of ten and staying alive. A throw of the dice. It’s at once liberating and terrifying.

This being the case, it would be completely understandable for Tongues - the half-blood squad interpreter (half elezen by those lanky limbs) - to be worried and on edge. The lad was always a bit jittery before combat. However, he made up for it by a frankly uncanny speed of learning languages and tendency to know when things were going to go wrong.

Officers might attribute the survival of your squad to you, Trachius “Snow” pyr Dreher (if they cared at all about a provincial), but you know that the low mortality rate is mostly thanks to Tongues, your lucky charm. You know it. Your entire squad knows it.

All things considered, it is very unfortunate and extremely worrying that he is unresponsive, leaning against a currently inactive Magitek Reaper and staring up at the sky with a look of horror on his face.

You reach forward once more to grasp at his shoulder and give him a slight shake. There's still no reaction. _Extremely concerning._

It’s not… _unusual_ for Tongues to have little turns, although it has been getting worse of late. To the point that the higher ups might actually take notice. But that’s a thought for another day - you don’t want to consider it for now. You don’t know what the brass does to those with uncanny or 'magical' tendencies, but they never return to their squads. The rumours are enough to sicken you, however. Loyalty to your squad, always. Allowing the brass to get their hands on Tongues would be a betrayal of everything you value.

For now, though, you turn away from your stricken comrade. A few steps away is the rest of your squad, checking and rechecking weapons, armor, munitions and other equipment. They’ve all seen Tongues’ state, and probably recognise the signs as well as you do, but it falls to you - as squad leader - to do act on it. And so it should be - you lead so they can focus on the battle ahead, free from distractions.

A gesture brings Juice, the elezen squad medicus, to your side. You have to crane your neck up to look him in the eye, **“Keep an eye on him, alright?”**

You both turn to eye Tongues, who now seems to be at least cognizant. However, it isn’t much of an improvement. His face is pale, drenched in sweat, and his eyes wide with terror. Those eyes seek our yours as you move closer once more, words barely escaping bloodless lips; **“Fire. A s-sky, on fire.”**

Neither you nor Juice have seen anyone go downhill quite so fast, quite so suddenly. Soldiers don’t normally break in the space of thirty minutes - not without clear external influence, anyway. Granted, Tongues had definitely been not right for the last few months, but even that did not explain the speed of deterioration.

Something in your throat tightens, threatening to choke you. The poor lad is broken. No longer combat effective. A liability to the squad. He can’t continue to serve beside you - he likely can’t continue to serve at all. If it was anyone else, without his oddities, this wouldn’t hurt so much. It feels like betrayal - but betraying who? Betraying the man whose uncanny ability to see trouble coming saved you all more times than you cared to count? Or betraying the squad by retaining a liability?

Still, you manage to force out a response as you reach his side, giving his shoulder a comforting squeeze with a plated gauntlet. Your eyes drift from his terrified ones to the other magitek reapers, one per squad as far as you can see.

**“Aye lad, there will be fire.”**

You make your decision - you will wait until after the battle, then talk with Juice.


	3. A Sky on Fire

Tongues was right.

It started with a bruising of the sky, like the summer storms of the North-Eastern provinces of your youth. But the colour deppened, becoming something entirely unnatural, turning over the course of the battle to a blood stained glow. And then the fire started.

The first firefall you noticed burnt a course through the sky to the right of the line, as your squad waited in reserve to move to the front. While not artillery you are familiar with, it would not surprise you if some new Allagan wonder produced it. It sailed onwards, before landing with a bright flash far beyond the battlefield.

And yet… the muted _crump_ of the explosion took a very long time to reach you. Training and a childhood of storm spotting informed you that, from the delay between flash and sound, it landed _miles_ away.

The second firefall you noticed landed just behind Eorzean battle lines. The magnitude of the projectile and the explosion was like nothing you had ever seen. You still remember the sick pricking of your skin and throat at that - this was not a war, this was slaughter. Those poor souls stood no chance, obliterated by artillery they could not hope to conquer with their meager technology. You had been wrong, of course. Even Garlean might could not produce artillery of that magnitude.

The third fell amidst the front lines. Hundreds of lives, brothers and sisters of the battlefield, obliterated. No cover in this forsaken plain, but no cover would have helped against that.

The call to advance comes over the pearl, a barked order from command. You relay it to your men, **“Squad, move out!”**

A glance over your shoulder confirms Tongues is following with Juice, clearly still terrified but at least following.

 

* * *

 

The fire continues to fall. The sky gets redder and redder, until clouds part and the monstrosity of Dalamud hangs above the field like a harbinger of death. Combat on all sides grinds to a halt in the face of indiscriminate fiery death.

All are equal in the shadow of the bloodied moon.

A strange serenity has fallen over your shell hole. Tongues appears to have saved you once again - despite his earlier terror, he quickly regained his composure, watching the sky with a blank, dispassionate face. The clamping down of mental armor, but not completely. The half blood’s eyes glitter brightly with more tears than be attributed to the acrid smoke of burning flesh. No surprise registering in his eyes, just a small nod as the battlefield descended into a conflagration.

While the rest of your squad - including yourself, you won’t deny it - flailed around looking for cover, he kept a cool head. You had tried to hold composure, tried to see a way out - but the fireballs travel too fast, their explosion radius too hard, death will either come or it won’t. When you didn’t trust your own voice to not betray your fear - fear of complete helplessness against this calamity - his voice was calm and cold as winter sea ice, hard as steel.

**“Follow me.”**

And you do, the sad surviving remnants of your command following the elezen-Garlean half-breed between fallen Reapers and corpses scorched beyond recognition. A Reaper’s ceruleum tank explodes nearby, causing you all to flinch from the blast. Thumb (Drust), the saboteur, stumbles and would likely have fallen if Juice hadn’t caught him in time.

Even in the chaos and panic of the firefall, you have time to monitor your squad. It’s second nature. Thumb’s wound worries you - left hand shattered by shrapnel, strapped against his chest by the medicus to prevent it getting any worse, and a followup chest wound. His face is pale under the soot sticking to his skin, but that’s to be expected. From the look of that hand, it wouldn’t surprise you if amputation was needed later. He wouldn’t be the first soldier with a magitech claw.

That only four other members of your squad are known to be alive hurts, but you don’t blame yourself. Your accepted losses would be unavoidable when the fire began to fall in ernest. You mourn them, but do not feel responsible for their deaths. A brief flash of introspection finds this darkly humorous - in any other situation, you would blame yourself for their deaths.

 

* * *

 

Tongues leads you and the remains of the original squad of ten - Juice, Thumb, Silk and yourself - to a shell hole, just one of many on the battlefield. A pair of downed Reaper hulks slump into the ground at the edge of the pit, providing some welcome additional welcome cover. Unfortunately, you are not the first to take shelter here.

A green-faced female Roegadyn, dressed in the red and black regalia of the Maelstrom, leans against bounder excavated by the blast at the bottom of the pit. Her right hand - or what remains of it - is clutched to her chest. A different shade of red against the already red uniform, glistening in the light of the moon, suggests potential for significant blood loss. From the angle of the bloody mess, it looks like a parry gone sour. Still, the rest of her is mostly intact - a few fingers is an acceptable trade for survival.

Despite this, she reaches for her belt with her left hand as your squad descends the edge of the shell hole, boots skidding slightly on the churned up earth.

 **“Drop it.”** Your voice is cold, steely with command and pitched to carry above the sounds of battle. Still, the tone is one designed to cut straight through to basic training - a command to be _obeyed_. And she does obey it, either out of reflexive response, or through seeing herself outmatched. This earns her a single approving nod.

After eyeing her hard for a moment - it’s so hard to tell if she’s that green shade naturally, and how much of it is hypovolemic pallor - you glance over your shoulder to your lucky charm once more. Tongues eyes are calm and sharp, watching the Eorzean. It is almost as if the last few months of jitters are nothing but a dream. Such flip-flopping is not unheard of amongst the broken, but for now he’s capable of keeping a wounded Maelstrom soldier under watch.

You move to help Juice support a stumbling Thumb into the hole. The hiss of pain as you grasp his shoulder at least in part explains his decreasing condition. **“How’s it looking, doc?”** You ask Juice.

Before the Elezen can answer, Thumb starts a chuckle which ends almost as soon as it started with another pained hiss, **“Feels like shit, Snow.”**

You give the architectus a look, one that clearly states _no shit_ . You briefly meet the medicus’ eyes, and of course he’s giving Thumb the same damn look. Despite the chaos of the battle, or perhaps because of it, your squad has achieved an oasis of fragile calm - the banter is only _slightly_ strained. Meeting your eyes, the elezen shakes his head briefly, rolling his eyes slightly, before delivering his report.

 **“Broken ribs, chest cavity uncompromised. He’ll live.”** Supported between the two of you, the saboteur starts to take a deep breath - possibly to start a self deprecating laugh - then gasps in pain, which of course makes the whole thing worse for the poor sod. Knowing him, he was going to try to make a smart-arse quip. For now, at least he’s too breathless with pain to do so as you help him down to the bottom of the pit. Both you and Juice lower him to the ground carefully. You rest on your haunches as Juice moves off to tend to the Maelstrom soldier - after all, you’re all in this fiery hellhole of a bloodbath together.

You fix Thumb with a stern glare, although there’s no real steel behind it. There doesn’t need to be right now. **“Shut up and rest up. That’s an order.”**

He inclines his soot-blackened head towards you in mock acknowledgement - you’re glad he didn’t try to pull off a salute with those ribs. **“Right y’are, Snow.”**

 **“Damn right I am, soldier.”** You give his knee a quick squeeze before pushing yourself to stand once more - it would be a shoulder squeeze, but that seems unwise at present. Once up, you look around the remnants of your squad, making a quick headcount.

Shit.

Where is Silk?


	4. Scraps of Silk [UNFINISHED]

The look on Tongues’ face before you left burns in your mind. Pity, worry, acceptance. All held on that soot blackened face.

You’re all blackened by soot now. It floats heavy on the wind, along with the acrid tang of burnt flesh. It’s best not to think too hard about what the soot is from, what -  _ who _ \- you are breathing in. The fires still fall, but that’s almost a given now. Strange how the combat trained mind shifts these things to the “environment” category and thinks nothing of it. That or you just accept you can’t do anything about it - it will either kill you or it won’t, the blast radius too large to give a hope of anything more than taking cover if you see a fireball coming. Either way, it’s no longer a major issue in your head right now.

Silk is the major issue. She was with you when Tongues started to lead you to the shell hole.  _ I should have checked earlier. _ You have failed in your duty to your squad - allowed a lapse in situational awareness that may well have cost a squad member their life. If you had kept an eye behind you, kept checking they were all there… you would have found her when she fell, wherever that was.

The churned ground of the battlefield - churned from the firefall, soldier’s boots, Reaper fire and blood - twists under your boots, threatening to turn an ankle, here of all places. You know how to deal with this - a shift in weight, and everything is under control once more.

There are bodies everywhere. There always are after a pitched battle. Some killed by obvious combat wounds, some killed by shrapnel - lumps of Reaper armor sticking out of bodies, limbs poking from under Reapers… limbs, without bodies to go with them.

Away from the squad, feelings are… permissible. In this brief moment, searching for Silk, you no longer need to be their anchor. But you know you still need to be careful - feelings and emotions cannot be allowed free reign. Not yet. Not until you are off the field.

Every fallen soldier you see is a slight twinge, although you would be lying if you didn’t admit it twinged most for fallen sons and daughters of Garlemald. How many are Aan, fighting for citizenship for themselves and their families like you once were? Parents, siblings, spouses and children. Dearest Kiyoko, little Kazuki… 

Should you fall, you hope your death will not be in vain - citizenship for Kiyoko and Kazuki. An education for your son, and a way out of the suffocating Doman culture for Kiyoko. This thought offers you some measure of comfort, as you follow yet more bodies as you retrace your squad’s route.

 

* * *

 

_I ran out of inspiration here, so I skipped on._


	5. Choke

Internal warnings scream at you that something is terribly, terribly wrong. And yet, despite their persistent urgency, they seem muffled to you. Blurred, without focus or weight. You should probably do something about them, but you cannot quite work out what. Or how. Or even why.

Nothing seems to be working. What you currently understand of your world is that it is a soft, red-brown shade, with occasional periods where the brightness of that red swells and then fades. Sometimes, these swellings are followed by muffled sounds so deep you feel them through every inch of your body. 

Your body. What is that? It takes you a moment to process the simple connection that your body is yours - currently, your awareness of it is as disconnected as everything else. You think you’re trying to move, but you can’t be sure. There’s an intense layer of Something blocking you from sensory input. Whatever it is, it’s both sharp and full of static. Both colourful and colourless. You float, fall and sink at the same time. 

Eventually - or soon, time has no meaning - your world changes. Pressure, shoulder. A sensation of movement, and the previous vague Something crystallizes into clarity. Pain. Or the memory of it. This primal sensation links you to your body, dragging you back to yourself. A spasm ripples through you as you open your mouth to gasp and scream, but something stops it. Agony, simultaneously white hot and ice cold, explodes in the left of your face, from lower jaw to cheekbone. The following startled inhale also meets resistance, and further flares of torment from inside your mouth and throat. 

There’s a muffled sound, different to the dull, bone-shaking booms from before. Its meaning is lost to you, but a hand finds your own and gives it a squeeze. You try your best to cling to it, anchor yourself to it, but it pulls away again. You reach blindly around your side for wherever it went, until something begins to lift your shoulders slightly from the ground. White-black sharp-static overwhelms.


End file.
